


The Lighthouse in the Night

by julesohara



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Gen, Honestly I'm not sure what this is, it's a concept my friend and i have discussed, this is only vaguely benslie tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:34:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julesohara/pseuds/julesohara
Summary: Leslie Knope is still dealing with the aftermath of something she witnessed just over a month ago.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is named after a lyric from "Hearts Don't Break Around Here" (Ed Sheeran, aka the artist i won't admit inspires the heck out of my more mushy fics). The full line is "she is the lighthouse in the night that will safely guide me home" which may or may not apply directly but was a big mood when i was writing this one-shot, so let's roll with it.

Leslie remembers locking eyes with him from across the lot, her plastic grocery bag slipping out of her shaking hands. Granola bars, juice boxes, and jars of tomato sauce tumble onto the pavement, and if she doesn’t look to hard, the sauce dripping from the cracked containers looks almost like blood on the dark cement. She can still see the triplets' faces flashing behind her eyelids as she blinks slowly, her eyes dropping to the gun in his hand. It’s strange; she'd seen guns before on television, but it took a while for her brain to process that the man a few yards away was packing heat.

He raises a finger to his lips, not trying to conceal his smirk as he lifts the weapon and starts moving, slinking across the sidewalk. Leslie doesn't remember much after that. Through the darkness, she can see him slipping silently through the back door of the supermarket. For a moment, the world seems to be frozen in place, like a plane suspended in midair before it comes spiraling down. The next thing she can recall is hearing the spray of bullets.

Maybe she was upset that she, a woman who had worked her whole life to help others, hadn't been able to do anything for the people in the store. Maybe she was just scared. Maybe, even then, she had known that this was going to change everything.

The woman sitting in the driver's seat next to her, with her hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, doesn't care about any of that.

"I'm not going to ask again, Emily. What's your favorite TV show?"

Leslie grits her teeth, clenches her fists. " _ Friday Night Lights _ ," she mutters without thinking about it. "Do you have any updates? Did they catch him yet?"

She shakes her head robotically, not betraying any hint of emotion. "Wrong. That's Leslie Knope's favorite TV show. I'm asking for Emily Martin's."

"Two people can have the same favorite TV show," Leslie argues. 

"They can, but they don't. Emily's favorite TV show is  _ Twin Peaks. _ ”

“All due respect, Marshal Thompson, but I don’t get why that’s such a big deal. I mean, it’s not like someone’s going to kill me over whether I watch  _ Twin Peaks  _ or  _ Friday Night Lights _ ,” she blurts. It’s a lot harder to keep herself in check without Ron’s no-nonsense presence.

“Oh, you don’t get it?” the Marshal asks, her voice rising rapidly. “Do you get that you need to know everything about Emily Martin? Do you get that you, for all intents and purposes, are now Emily Martin? You may not think this is a big deal, but one slip doesn’t just put you in danger. It compromises the entire mission and risks the lives of people Leslie Knope cares very deeply about. Do you get it now, Emily?”

Leslie nods slowly, staring straight ahead. She’s already tired of these pop quizzes, and it’s only been a little over a month. It isn’t to say that she doesn’t love memorizing large quantities of vital information; she’s just tired of witness protection. She’s tired of Emily Martin. 

“Let’s go over the standard checklist,” Marshal Thompson continues briskly, having regained her composure. “Have you had any contact with anyone from your previous life?”

“No,” Leslie says. She knows how these things are supposed to go. The Marshal just wants quick, honest, and businesslike responses.

“Has anyone questioned your current identity either in person or online?”

“No.”

“Emily, where did you go to college?”

She doesn’t have to think too hard about her answers. Maybe it’s symptomatic of her many years in government, but interviews come easily to her. Or, at least, interviews come easily to Leslie.

“John Carroll University, where I majored in education.” That isn’t difficult for her to imagine. A lot of people used to tell her she would be a good teacher. They generally received an earful about the history of Pawnee after making such a statement, but it was something, at least.

“What is your mother’s maiden name?”

It takes a second for her to push down memories of someone named Marlene. “Gould.”

“Where were you born?”

That one isn’t hard to lie about; the real answer is almost more infuriating. “I was born in Boise, Idaho.”

“What is your occupation?”

“I’m an accountant at a mid-sized rock salt company.”

The Marshal thinks for a second before coming up with the next question. “Where was your most recent job before this one?”

Leslie swallows hard, like she’s trying to keep vomit down. “At a library,” she spits. Marshal Thompson nods, satisfied. 

“Are we done?” Leslie prompts her, more than a little impatient. It’s been forty-six days, and the pretending is becoming an unsatisfying routine. 

“Almost,” she says, swinging open the glove compartment and retrieving a pair of sunglasses, which she rests on her lap noncommittally. “Emily Martin, are you married?”

Leslie pauses. Without glancing at her, she can tell that the Marshal is staring at her. She can feel the heat of her piercing gaze on the back of her neck.

She closes her eyes, letting the darkness of the supermarket parking lot wash over her. The man hurries out of the same door as the air swells with sirens and screams, overlapping in a thick cacophony that tears at the skin of her face. Flashing lights fill the night sky, and illuminate the blue lettering on the man’s jacket. Each sewn-on digit is splattered with blood, and it reminds her of the mush of tomatoes and broken glass at her feet. 

The biggest shock is how quickly it happens. He entered the store just seconds ago, it seems, and now there are multiple fatalities and ambulances and news vans vying for the best parking spot. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out, and it lights up in her hand, the name  _ Benji Wyatt  _ scrolling across the tiny screen. He’s seen the news reports, maybe. He’s just a worried husband. Leslie almost smiles at the realization that he cares about her very much.

Then, before she can enter, the man makes eye contact with her, and the terrifying reality of her situation hits her like a truck. She saw him. He knows that. He’s armed and dangerous. She’s in so, so much danger. 

And so is Ben.

“Emily?” 

The Marshal is still staring at her, still awaiting a response. Leslie blinks, forcing the view out the windshield to swim back into focus. She eyes the scruffy shrubbery and bizarrely twisted chain-link fence, reminding herself that it is about noon. It’s been about 1104 hours since that night. She’s far from Pawnee, Indiana. 

“Emily, are you married?”

She clears her throat and turns to face her, meeting her steely gaze.

“No.”

Emily Martin climbs out of the car and starts to walk away. 


End file.
